


Creator's Complex

by doctorwazlib



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorwazlib/pseuds/doctorwazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a/n -- This is the first part of (hopefully) a story that explores the people (or person) that created each single Avenger.  This is not only an experiment in characterization, but also in writing style.  The chapters will be shorter than most regular stories, and to be honest the format is more poem than prose, but I digress.  I hope you enjoy.  Remember, all rights of the Avenger's, Bucky, and those who created Bucky, belong to Marvel.  Not me.  Sadly.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Seasons Folly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillacat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Never Let Me Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/816034) by [vanillacat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacat/pseuds/vanillacat). 



> a/n -- This is the first part of (hopefully) a story that explores the people (or person) that created each single Avenger. This is not only an experiment in characterization, but also in writing style. The chapters will be shorter than most regular stories, and to be honest the format is more poem than prose, but I digress. I hope you enjoy. Remember, all rights of the Avenger's, Bucky, and those who created Bucky, belong to Marvel. Not me. Sadly.

Some nights were like this: dark, lonely, afraid — and that’s okay. When you are alone in a black room that lacks all visible light, fear is really the only reasonable response. We do not blame you; we do not judge.

As you sit there, some nights, engulfed in a tangible air of void, you often wonder. You wonder what those other nights are like and why you cannot remember them. You wonder why it is so cold.

(Air clings to your body, a freezing creek keeping your face stuck in its permanent scream. The tears are like super glue.)

I swore to myself when I started playing this game and aiding this devil that I would one day dry those black eyes. How uncomfortable that must be. 

But we cannot touch and we cannot interfere. The path you are — walking, strutting, stumbling — running down is already decided and changing it would mean failure for us all. We are not the bad guys, we are not -

(good)

\- but we know that if you could comprehend the truth you would realize you are the same. A carbon copy of the corrupted government that entrapped you and birthed your new form. 

You are one of us — and that’s okay.

Some days were like this too. A warm sliver through a window you could not place. A bright sun casting a flicker of comfort onto your frozen body. We should probably buy a curtain. Risking the warmth that could remind you was one of our biggest mistakes. Though we made many. 

The nights and days and dusks surrounded by warmth are somewhere lost in your mind, but those days that were like this did not awake those thoughts. Not really. Does it scare you to know you are going to keep failing to remember? We apologize. 

(Except we suspect you know how empty our apologies tend to be. Sorry.)

But on these favorable days when the warmth thaws the cogs in your arm and the sun illuminates a no longer chilled man, maybe your mind reaches out. Maybe you recall a house or a person or a war. The anger is lit upon your face like a match with the heat. Your anger is unjustified, manufactured by the people who are only trying to help. 

(Help themselves, I mean.)

And when the sun bears down the emotion of a past that is not yours, but still belongs to you, and you become lost and broken, we will be there. Waiting to freeze the painful feeling away. 

A star spangled blue suit cannot save you from your created destiny. A person once known cannot help you fight the demons we have created for you. 

(Only to kill them and come out as your only hero.)

Do not believe his promises of savior and redemption. He claims to know you, but how can he? How can someone you do not remember know you better than us?

All of this kept in your frail and tattered mind, you have still left us. An explosion in the sky the only gift of your departure. You hurt us codename Winter. Why? Were we not good enough for you?

And now you run and hide beneath hats of deception and lies that do not give you the answers you are searching for. Jumping from place to place, thinking we do not know where you are. Believing that we cannot find you. Hoping that we have forgotten why we made you in the first place. 

But we know where you are. We know where you hide, because we never truly lost you. You might think you are free, but do not hold faith in that. That sort of faith is empty and promises only pain and confusion. 

One day, a day that is not like they used to be, when you have forgotten the days that were, we will come for you. We will come and this will start all over again. 

Trying to escape your makers was a mistake. You are a mess. You are a child. 

And we have arms that are opened wide. 

Come home.


	2. Anger Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n -- Second installment? Far too long from the first if you ask me. Again: all rights, characters, and creators belong to Marvel and not me. Darn.

Sometimes I wish that I could find some way to not take credit for what happened to you. We both know how fruitless and pointless and ruthless wishing is, so why do we bother? Is hope even a justifiable answer at this point? I laugh. Hope for what? Sometimes I wish, trapped, yes, that I was not so eager to prove myself.

(It is not fair to have to prove myself to something that I am. Oh god how I wish I was not.)

Not to you. I have nothing to say to you, understand this. Nothing more than what I have said a million times before. You are a monster that I alone must feel guilt for. A disease that I unleashed upon an unforgiving and freshly wounded world. A disease that is not, at its core, ill, but rather sick. I wonder aloud if there is actually a difference.

You are confused, and, in a way, that is my fault as well. Though you confuse me as well.

Quantum theory and humming machines-- carry the one-- paired with radiation and one sick mans regime. 

I cannot claim to know what he had been planning. I cannot claim to know what I was able to wreck upon myself. 

An object in motion stays in motion until it is transferred to another, my anger the motion 

(emotion)

shifted into your own. My need to create wonderfully echoed in your own to destroy. A perfect Shakespearean equilibrium. But who is cast as the villain? Is it me for being so foolhardy to allow such a critical error in my equations? Or perhaps for treating you as something unreal. Something easily labeled as 'monster' and 'fiend'? Are you my fatal foe? Destined to kill me 

(kill yourself, really)

in your last few moments of glory and determination? Am I Hamlet, or are you? She would make a lovely Ophelia.

Could it be possible that neither of us are the villain? Is this story about something greater than good versus evil? Perhaps man versus self? Is that not as gorgeously timeless a tale?

Do you even know what I'm asking of you-- me-- you? I suspect it to be so. Theories and pondering late at night when the remainder of this side of the world is content in their slumber, their minds soft and wistful, mine-- ours-- aching and restless. 

Your thought is as independent as my own yet we are still the same mind. From a scientific point it amazes me. From a human point it terrifies me. I think we terrify her.

I blame you for that.

I blame myself.


End file.
